


One of a Kind

by irisbleufic



Series: One Step Away 'Verse (& Related Excursions) [2]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Birthday Presents, Canon Backstory, Canon Compliant, Clothing, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fashion & Couture, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grandparents & Grandchildren, High School, Idiots in Love, Inanimate Objects, M/M, Multi, Music, Musical Instruments, Musicians, Not Canon Compliant, Parent-Child Relationship, Science Boyfriends, Science Bros, Sibling Bonding, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We find ourselves one piece of flair at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of a Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I've been unable to write anything that's not demanded of me in an academic context for about three or four weeks now, and that has...not been pleasant. With about four substantial outlines stalled and in various elaborate holding patterns on my desktop, I decided to try to break this cycle of whatever-the-hell-is-wrong-right-now by flipping through my fall semester notebook. There were a few neglected, low-stress pieces of  **[ _OSA_ 'Verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/322148) ** errata lying around in there, so this is one of them. I remain as fascinated with characters' clothing and adornment choices now as I was, say, back when I was writing  **[ _Toy Soldiers_ fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic/works?fandom_id=226817)** , and Marty McFly's fashion choices, much like Joey Trotta's, never disappoint. I'm compelled to construct the stories behind what my favorite fictional people wear, up to and including  **[what they have inked on their skin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1075605)** , so consider this another gesture in that direction. This consists of 8 vignettes falling between August 1983 and November 1985, with the last one falling  _during_ the events of OSA installment  ** _[As Hard as Consequence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/chapters/7645742)_**. Furthermore, I've written all seven of the scenes leading up to the final one with intent that they're scenes that happen in  _both versions_ of Marty's life, the original timeline and the revised one.

**August 6, 1983**

Marty stared out the passenger-side window as his mother drove endless circles around the mall parking lot. She wasn't great at finding a space even on days less busy than this one; Marty drummed his fingers against the door-handle and smashed his cheek against the cool glass. Fifteen for almost two months now, and he was stuck school shopping with his mom. _Pathetic_.

"Son of a bitch," Lorraine muttered under her breath, and then cast Marty an apologetic glance, reaching over to pat him on the arm. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I really should watch my language."

"I'm gonna be a sophomore when school starts three weeks from now," Marty sighed, peeling his face off the window. "I'm not a kid anymore, Ma. You can say whatever the hell you want."

"I don't like your tone of voice," Lorraine scolded, but whatever she'd meant to say was lost when a space opened up right in front of them. She crowed gleefully, screeching into it as soon as the van had pulled out. "We're in business! Now, was there anything we needed to get your father?"

"No," Marty said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "The whole point was that you think my shit's too ratty?"

Lorraine froze in the middle of opening her door, frowning at him. "Is something bothering you, Marty?" she asked, tilting her head at him. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Marty shook his head and got out of the car, meeting her around the other side. "No, ma'am."

"Chin up," Lorraine said, putting an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the curb.

"Can we go to Foot Locker first?" Marty asked. "The one thing we agree on is that my Chucks are falling apart." He pulled free of his mother's grasp, dashing ahead to hold the door for her.

Marty liked shoe stores partly because they were a lot more organized than his personal space tended to be, and also because you knew exactly what you were going to find in them. High-tops were falling out of fashion in a big way, and even though black Chuck Taylors _were_ pretty classic, they were also, like, _really_ eighth-grade. Needles had been harping on him for it.

"Nothing too expensive, honey!" Lorraine called from a few aisles away, examining penny loafers.

"Yeah, whatever," Marty sighed, running his index finger along the edge of some shoe boxes. He hated trying to decide what would go with almost everything he had, yet also stand out somehow. He couldn't afford to have the label _dork_ permanently affixed to his ass, but there wasn't much he could do about _music geek_ , and, anyway, he wore that one like a badge of honor.

"How about some nice white sneakers?" Lorraine suggested loudly, setting Marty's teeth on edge.

Marty tried on a few pairs of Reeboks that didn't look half bad, but then he remembered that those were what Needles and his creeps tended to wear. When Lorraine came down the aisle to check on him, he set the boxes aside in a rush, muttering something about all of them being full price.

Lorraine set a box in his lap. "Why don't you try these on? They were up in one of the displays."

Marty leafed the tissue paper aside, and all he could think, cringing, was that those red Nike check-marks or swooshes or whatever were a complete eye-sore. The price tag had been red-lined down to sixty percent off, so no wonder his mom had been drawn to them. Marty looked one of the Bruins over closely, noting there were patches of dust here and there. He blew them away.

"I think those came out in 1982 or something," said a young salesperson, dubiously, as she passed by to restock some shelves. "We've been trying to get rid of that pair for almost a couple years."

"At least try them?" Lorraine fretted. "You never used to complain about the shoes I picked you."

"Yeah, but I never used to be this old," Marty reminded her, picking apart the knots in his not-long-for-this-world Chucks, kicking them off. He took the other shoe out of the box, jamming his feet into both of them. They looked better on than off, but that was without benefit of a mirror.

Lorraine folded her arms across her chest, sucking in her breath as if she really regretted what she was about to say. "The manager told me the rest of those all got snapped up by skateboarders."

Marty tied the sneakers, not bothering with double-knots like he usually did, and strolled over to the nearest mirror. They _did_ look like skater shoes, but he didn't know about the red-and-white. He could move in them, anyway. He tapped one heel against the floor. They fit like a glove.

"Huh," said the sales-girl as she passed by again, arms empty of boxes. "Those don't look bad."

Lorraine came up behind Marty, grinning madly. He smiled back at her reflection, thinking fast.

"If I say yes to these," Marty said, "can I get that bitchin' jean jacket I saw a couple weeks ago?"

"Why not," Lorraine sighed. "We'll save enough. Besides, those shoes match your backpack!"

Marty groaned, bending to untie the sneakers, but then thought better of it. "I'll wear 'em home."

 

**November 13, 1983**

"You skipped a measure!" Marty shouted over Doc's out-of-practice racket. "Back up a little!" He turned the sheet-music back a page, not sorry that he'd raided the jazz band's cupboard for the saxophone part on _Shake, Rattle, & Roll_. "Why d'you wanna memorize this, anyway?"

Doc relented in frustration, letting his instrument hang by its neck-strap. "It's the principle of the thing," he said, tugging a handkerchief out of his back pocket, wiping his forehead with it.

"The principle of _what_ thing?" Marty asked, shifting in his seat on the sofa. He had the score in his lap, and there was still half a carton of french fries on the coffee table in front of him. He grabbed a few, watching Doc's eyes follow the progress of his fingers. "Still hungry?"

"Not as hungry as you are," Doc admitted, waving to indicate that Marty should eat the rest on his own. "My metabolism would never forgive me. You need the calories far worse than I do."

Marty tried to smile around the handful he'd shoved in his mouth, but a couple fell on the floor. Einstein trotted over from where he'd been sitting attentively at Doc's feet, wolfing down the scraps. Marty finished chewing, swallowed, and reached down to pet the dog. "From the top?"

Doc nodded, the set of his eyebrows shifting from downcast to determined. "Say the word."

"And a one, and a _two_ —" Marty didn't get any further; the _squawk_ as Doc started up again was deafening. "Jesus Christ! My _eardrums_ , Doc!"

Doc stopped short, eyes wide and apologetic, gone almost as white as his hair. "I'm sorry, Marty."

"I'm really, _really_ glad guitars don't usually do that," said Marty, winking at him. "Sheesh."

"You've made a terrible racket hooked up to various of the amps we've modified," Doc pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's different," Marty said, setting aside the music as Doc came over to sit beside him on the sofa. "It's more of an electrical malfunction than, say, a cracked reed or a breathing issue."

"It's been too many years since I've picked this thing up," said Doc, propping the saxophone against the side of the sofa. "My embouchure is shot. There's nothing wrong with the reeds; I just picked them up yesterday." His expression changed again, brightening. "That reminds me," he said, fetching a flat white paper bag off the coffee table which, up until that point, Marty had paid no mind. Doc shook the contents into his lap. One was the packet of reeds, and the other—tiny, shining, and plastic-wrapped—he held out on the flat of his palm. "This is for you."

Marty pulled the sealed plastic apart, dumping the metallic item in his palm. Back-up, it looked like some kind of old-school brass pin. He flipped it face-up, surprised by what he saw. "Aw, jeez."

"While it's certainly your dream guitar," Doc said, "I apologize for the fact that it's not to scale."

 _Six months ago, you snuck in here because Needles promised he'd continue to make your life at school a living hell if you didn't,_ Marty thought, wonderingly, undoing the catch, snagging his jacket off the back of the sofa. He left the pin propped on his knee while he struggled into it. _Now, the guy's your friend and grateful to you for so much more than you actually do._

"Please don't ruin the fabric for the pin's sake," said Doc, quickly. "It was just a token of my—"

"What do you think, Doc?" Marty asked, affixing the pin to his jacket, grinning. "Does it suit me?"

Doc studied him, adjusting the pin, his gaze undeniably fond. "Right down to the ground," he said.

 

**January 22, 1984**

Marty sneezed violently, wrinkling his nose as he clawed his way through coat after ancient unworn coat in the breezeway closet. _You'll need something warmer than denim for the occasional work we'll be doing outside at night,_ Doc had said to him the day before. _Maybe something that you can wear over it, something that you're not afraid to get dirty. Utility pockets would also come in handy. I might need you to carry tools, or even some small fittings and components._

"What are you doing in there, bro?" Dave demanded from his spot on the sofa, flipping idly through channels. "Excavating the Valley of the Kings like those guys I saw in _National Geographic_?"

"No," Marty sighed, blindly fishing out the last few item-laden hangers that he couldn't quite see in the dark. He sneezed, dropping all three of them on the floor. " _Shit_ ," he sighed, scooping up the one that had landed on top. "I guess that's where Mom's favorite Christmas cardigan went." Marty shook it out and hung it back up, front and center, so she'd see it. "Where'd we get all this crap, anyway," he asked, snagging what he was fairly sure had been his winter jacket when he was about twelve, hanging it next to his mother's sweater, "and why doesn't anybody _wear_ it?"

"Because it's all ugly as fuck?" Dave ventured, taking another sip from the can of beer he'd pilfered from the fridge. "I mean, damn. Look at that thing you're stepping on."

Marty leaped back, swearing under his breath, and then picked up the item. Dave had a point: it was bright, _burnt_ orange, a shade you could probably only get away with wearing if you were a tree. Marty shook out the down-filled vest, sticking his hand inside one of the pockets. "Hey, these are deep. They'd hold a lot. What the hell _is_ this? Did Dad buy it?"

"Remember that ski trip with my co-workers a couple of years ago that I didn't really want to go on?" Dave asked, sparing less than a fraction of a glance at the unfortunate garment. "Grandma Baines picked it up for me at Class-5, mail-ordered it even though she lives all the way over in Florida now. It's supposed to be nice, but I think it's an eyesore. Looks like a life preserver."

Marty took the vest off the hanger, holding it out at arms' length. It was only _really_ bad if you got it under a bright light, and the down filling felt impressively substantial when he crushed it to his chest. He breathed in; it smelled like dust and Dave's aftershave. He sneezed again.

"Are you gonna stand there and cuddle that thing all night," Dave ventured, "or are you gonna quit that racket so I can watch TV? I've gotta be at work early tomorrow, and I don't wanna miss this."

Marty ignored him, diving back into the closet for his jean jacket. Doc's gift to him, the guitar pin, glinted as he swung it over his shoulder and shrugged into the rolled-back sleeves. Getting the vest on overtop of his jacket was more if a production than he'd counted on, but— _wow_. He'd only spent a few seconds moving around in that get-up, and he already felt overheated.

"I'm serious," Dave groused. "Are you gonna stop dicking around? Commercial break's over."

"Hey, _ah_..." Marty swallowed, fingering the vest's pocket fastenings, shoving one of them into alignment with its under-fitting until he heard a satisfying _snap_. "Can I have this?"

"Whatever, brat," said Dave, just like he used to when Marty was five. "Knock yourself out."

 

**April 22, 1984**

Marty scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the sidewalk. He wished his parents would stop yakking to the priest, who they only saw about twice a year after holiday Masses, but it was no use. Linda was standing next to Lorraine, her eyes fixed on Marty. She mimed slitting her throat.

Marty beckoned to her and mouthed, _Get down here. Misery sure loves company, huh?_

Linda said something to the priest, patted their mother on the shoulder, kissed Grandma Sylvia and their father on the cheek, and dashed to where Marty was standing as fast as her ballet flats could carry her. "It's such a drag," she said. "Father O'Flaherty keeps asking why I'm not married yet."

"Tell the old Boston snob to shove it," Marty said, putting a companionable arm around Linda's neck. He liked the fact that they were pretty much the same height and probably always would be.

"I didn't have the heart," Linda admitted, fiddling with something in her jean-skirt pocket. "It's Easter Sunday. If we can just get through this, Marty, think about it. There'll be ham at Grandma and Grandpa's place, and maybe there'll actually be something _cool_ in our baskets this year."

"We're _way_ too old for Easter baskets," Marty sighed, returning Grandma Sylvia's cajoling wave, refusing to be lured up the church steps. "Hasn't anybody told them that?"

"Try telling Dad's parents _anything_ ," Linda sighed, finally removing her hand from her pocket, fingers closed around something. "Hey, nerd," she said, holding the object out to him.

Marty took the round, white plastic disc out of Linda's hand. He ran his thumb across the back, finding a safety-pin fitting. _ART IN REVOLUTION_ , the button read. "Where'd this come from?"

"Found it on the floor while we were kneeling for one of the prayers," said Linda, shrugging. "Some teenage poser must've dropped it. Everybody side-eyes the guitar pin; you're _way_ too serious about music stuff. Maybe this'll lighten the mood? Show them you can laugh."

"Happy Easter to you, too," Marty sighed, fiddling with the pin until he was happy with the placement. "I really don't know," he said, frowning down at his jacket. "Now I'm the poser."

"Yeah, but you're my baby brother," Linda said, catching _him_ around the neck this time. "If anyone can make poserhood cool, it's probably Marty McFly. Almost nothing about you is ironic."

"Jeez, cut it out," said Marty, rubbing his cheek. "Give me delusions of grandeur, why don't you."

 

**September 3, 1984**

Marty had figured out early on that the best place to hide from people at his parents' attempts at social gatherings was his father's office. It was just past the bathroom and his own bedroom, sure; while the bathroom wasn't off-limits and somehow bedrooms weren't, either, especially not to the terminally curious, offices automatically _were_. He swiveled around and around in George's desk-chair until he felt like he might be sick.

When the door opened unexpectedly, he lost his momentum with the spinning, almost pitching out of the chair. The person who stood there, unlit except for the strident afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, laughed at him. It wasn't the same kind of laughter he got from Needles and his tormentors at school, though. This laughter was kind, familiar, and _slightly_ awkward.

"Oh, _son_ ," George sighed, coming in to lean against his desk while Marty caught his breath and tried to get his heart-rate back down to normal. "I understand the impulse all too well."

"This isn't exactly the best Labor Day party I've ever been to," Marty sighed. "Just for the record." He bit his lip, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. "Look, Dad, I...can I just go down to Doc's?"

George sighed and folded his arms across his chest, but there was an air of indulgence about the gesture that always reminded Marty of Grandma Sylvia. That was curiously comforting.

"We'll see what your mother has to say," said his father, and then went rummaging in his top desk-drawer like a man on a mission. "In the meantime, though, _somebody_ needs more sunscreen," he said, tapping Marty's pink forearms. He pulled something out of the drawer, offering it to Marty with a guilty expression. "Don't tell anybody, but these were in the lost and found at work," he said. "They'd been unclaimed for a while."

Marty opened the matte black case, finding a pair of aviator sunglasses inside. "I don't think anybody'll miss these," he said, giving his father a half-smile, perching them on the bridge of his nose. "They're kinda nice, but they're not _expensive_ , I don't think. How do I look?"

"Like less of a square than your old man," George told him, tugging Marty's wrist. "C'mon."

 

**February 14, 1985**

Marty didn't know the first thing about how Valentine's Day was supposed to work, which was why he stood there stammering like an idiot with his sunglasses on as he offered Jennifer the box of chocolate-covered strawberries he'd picked up from the mom-and-pop candy place downtown.

"You're sweet," Jennifer said, accepting the box, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. "Thanks."

"I just, ah, you know," Marty said, gesturing uselessly at the token they'd probably spend the next five or ten minutes eating, "remembered you saying something about...liking...strawberries."

"It was blueberries, actually," said Jennifer, nose wrinkling as she smiled. "But I won't lie, it's touching you'd remember something involving berries given we've only been dating six months."

Marty hooked his thumbs in his pockets, staring at the high-school parking lot lines they were standing on. He didn't have a car on hand in which he could give her a lift, much less the wherewithal to remember her _actual_ favorite berries. "I'm getting the better end of this deal, believe me," he sighed, and, as much as he cared about her, something felt wrong, felt _off_.

"Not so fast, mister," Jennifer said, using her free hand to tilt Marty's chin back up before fishing in her back pocket. "I got you something, too, so don't go thinking you're off the hook just yet."

Marty tore the plastic, which enclosed an unremarkable item that otherwise winked in the early evening sun, triggering a vivid sense-memory. _Doc's sofa, cold french fries, hilarious saxophone practice._ He held an odd, deflated triangle shape filled with pale blue and yellow enamel.

"Why this... _whatever_ -it-is?" Marty asked, turning the pin around. "Wait, it's a boomerang?"

"Because you might go flying off sometimes," said Jennifer, winking, "but you always come back."

Marty couldn't argue with that, not when he'd decisively wrecked his secondhand skateboard a couple of weeks back and only just _now_ gotten back in his mother's good graces. He hadn't been able to hang out after school, not with his mom or his dad or even _Doc_ coming to collect his ass like clockwork. Needles and company hadn't let him hear the end of it.

"Do the honors?" Marty asked, holding the pin out to Jennifer, who was already making headway on one of the strawberries. "I kinda suck at placement. I'm never happy with the other two."

"I'm amazed you're happy with that orange thing," said Jennifer, finishing the strawberry, licking her fingers before brushing the vest aside to study Marty's existing pins, "but you make it work somehow. I like Doc's theory that it keeps you safe when you're skating. Most of the time."

"One day," Marty said, watching her place the boomerang with care, "I'll be covered in these."

 

**June 12, 1985**

At his family birthday gathering, Marty couldn't come up with an adequate excuse for hiding in his dad's office for once. Grandma Baines had already telephoned from Florida, promising that a card with some money in it was on the way. Marty never placed much stock in that promise, as some years the card materialized, and some years it didn't. He'd rather the money went to Uncle Joey.

Lorraine was bustling around the kitchen with a martini in one hand and her favorite cake knife in the other, muttering something about George's parents never being on time. She took a long drink.

"Don't worry, bro," said Dave, loudly, snapping one of Linda's novelty party hats on Marty's head.

"Remind me again, am I _actually_ related to you guys?" he replied, refusing to take the blow-out party horn Linda was waving in his face. "Also, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not turning six."

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Marty!" Lorraine scolded from the kitchen. "Your siblings mean well!"

"Square, spoilsport, same difference," Marty muttered under his breath, sticking the horn in his mouth. He blew on it once, and then burst out laughing at Linda's sarcastic applause.

"It's a way to pass the time," said Linda, grabbing the remote control from next to their father's plate. She clicked the television off; George made a pained face. "Dad, where _are_ they?"

"Hey, you know Grandpa Artie," Dave offered, sticking a second hat on his head, adjusting both stretchy straps under his chin. "Grandma can't get him anywhere on time. The guy's cursed."

"Now, it wasn't always like that," George insisted, reaching for one of the party hats. He stuck it on his head, winking at Marty to reassure him that going the single-hat route was acceptable. Dave and Linda, on the other hand, both looked like they had horns. "Dad used to be on top of things."

"Yeah, on top of emptying his beer," said Linda. In moments like this, Marty adored her snark.

The unholy racket that came from outside at that moment could only mean one thing: Grandma Sylvia had made Artie park a little ways off from the house again just so they could sneak up and surprise everyone. Marty got up from the table, discarding his party hat, dashing to answer the door.

Linda and Dave booed him for ditching the hat, and Lorraine made disapproving noises while she started sticking candles in the cake.

Marty opened the door, grinning and breathless. "We have a doorbell, Grandma," he told Sylvia, almost tripping into her arms as she pulled him into a tight hug. "You don't have to risk damaging your cane like that, I swear. We want it to last."

"That's my precious boy," said Sylvia, smacking a kiss on Marty's cheek. "You need a haircut, but you're still handsome." She patted the spot she'd just kissed, letting Marty help her inside; meanwhile, Arthur trailed after her with a curt, chagrined salute to Marty. "Ain't he handsome?"

"Yes, darling," Arthur sighed, hanging his hat next to the door. "Regular chip off the old block."

"I dunno about that," Sylvia said as Marty helped her settle into one of the extra chairs they'd pulled up to the table. "You ever seen any pictures of your Great-Grandpa Willie?" she asked Marty, tapping her right temple. "I have, and I'll tell you what. You look just like him."

"Dad looks like _you_ , Grandpa," said Linda, pulling out the other chair for him. "Hey."

"Goddamn it," said Arthur, thumping the back of the seat he'd been offered. "Left it in the car."

"Aw, don't you fret," said Sylvia, rummaging in her purse. She tossed her keys onto the paper plate in front of Dave, gesturing for the door. "Be a sweetheart and go get your brother's present."

Dave sighed heavily, gathering up the keys, but he did as he was told. "I assume it's obvious?"

"All wrapped up in the back," replied Arthur, and something about his tone made Marty wary.

"While Dave's taking care of that, I guess we can all sing," said Lorraine, bringing the cake in with care, setting it down right in front of Marty. "I couldn't find seventeen candles, so you've got six."

Linda snorted into her plastic cup of Pepsi, which may or may not have had some vodka in it.

"Dave's gonna have a field day," Marty said. "Okay, let's get this over with. _Happy Birthday to_ —"

"You can't sing to yourself, doofus, pretty voice or not," Linda said, cutting him off. "Let me start."

Dave came back in just as the chorus was ending. As usual, Sylvia's voice was what you could hear over everyone else's, charmingly melodic even in old age. Marty blew out half of the candles, sneezed, and then blew out the rest. Dave waved Marty's present in the air while everyone clapped.

"I don't like the feel of this," he said, rattling the unwieldy thing. "Seems way cooler than Marty deserves."

"Give it to him already!" said Sylvia, snapping her fingers at Dave. "He's been waitin' long enough."

Marty carefully plucked the shiny red bow (left over from Christmas, it looked like) off the strangely utilitarian brown wrapping paper, ripping it open with care. His fingers knew his way around this class of object even when the majority of it was obscured; there was really no mistaking the shape of a skateboard for anything else. He pushed his chair back from the table so he could flip it over and over in his hands, utterly dismayed. Valterra deck with Madrid mods, from the look of it—maybe the wheels and everything else? He put the board on the floor, setting one foot on it.

"Who _did_ this?" he asked Sylvia, incredulous. "I mean—I know you must've funded it, _thank you_ for that, but I...somehow don't think this is your area of expertise, you know?"

Arthur pretended to be watching television with his son while Sylvia looked smug as anything.

"I had some help from a friend of yours," she said. "That odd scientist gentleman, Emmett?"

"Yeah, that's his name all right," Marty replied. "But it's not exactly his department, either."

Sylvia shrugged. "He said he'd do some research. That was good enough, wasn't it, Artie?"

"Yes," Arthur agreed, reaching for the beer Lorraine had brought out. "Good enough for jazz."

"Oh, you shut your trap about jazz," Sylvia scoffed. "You don't _know_ jazz like I do."

Lorraine wandered over to stand next to Marty's chair, side-eyeing the skateboard with mistrust.

"You'd better not ruin this one the way you ruined your old one," she sighed, swilling her drink.

"I'm not gonna ruin it, Ma," Marty insisted. "I promise. But I'm sure as hell gonna break it in!"

 

**November 9, 1985**

Marty skidded to a halt in front of Doc's front gate, breathless. He wasn't sure he'd managed to give Tiff the slip, not when that kid was hell on goddamn wheels when it came to how fast she could maneuver that beat-up mountain bike of hers. As if Marty's goodwill gesture ( _Bribe_ , Marty corrected himself, _call it what it is_ ) of loaning her Patti Smith's _Horses_ on vinyl the evening before hadn't been enough, she'd turned up bright and early that morning, chattered her way past George when he'd answered the front door, and proceeded to nag Marty about meeting Doc.

He kicked up the corner of Doc's front mat with the scuffed toe of his Nike. No key in sight.

"Let me _in_ , Doc!" Marty shouted, hammering with both fists, and, dropping his skateboard, went back over to slam the padlock shut. None too soon; Tiff screeched up three seconds after he'd accomplished the task, gasping for air. "I'm kinda not in the mood for this today," he told her.

"Yeah," Tiff wheezed, sagging onto her handlebars, "but looks like you _are_ in the mood for fu—"

The front door opened, and Doc stood there looking as perplexed and strangely charming as ever.

"This is, ah, Tiff Tannen," Marty improvised, indicating the indignant teenager with a wave of his hand. "Tiff, this is my—this is, uh—Doc, Doc _Brown_ , you know, the guy you dressed—"

"Aha," Doc said, breaking into a lopsided grin. "The one who dressed as me for Halloween?"

"Yup, that's me," said Tiff, glancing back and forth between Marty and Doc with a glint in her narrowed hazel eyes that was far too devilish for Marty's liking. "Marty told you about that?"

"Marty tells me just about everything that's worth hearing," Doc said. "Would you like to—"

"No, _ah_ ," Marty cut in, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. "She's gotta get home."

"Who put you in charge of my social calendar?" Tiff challenged, every inch her father's daughter.

"You did!" Marty snapped, scarcely missing a beat. "Also, your parents don't know you're here."

Doc got the hint without Marty needing to drop it twice. "Why don't you come back tomorrow?"

Tiff turned her attention on Doc, crestfallen. "Guess you guys must be... _busy_ or somethin'?"

Marty cringed at her tone, but, somehow, Doc didn't appear pick up on the knowing sarcasm at all.

"As you're aware, Marty's been my research and personal assistant for some time," he explained.

"Yeah _yeah_ ," Tiff sighed, shifting back onto the seat of her bike. "What time tomorrow?"

"Sometime in the afternoon," Marty said before Doc could respond. " _Late_ afternoon."

"Two o'clock should suffice," Doc told her, finally stepping into the sun, approaching Marty's side.

"Better make it three," Marty amended, attempting to ignore Doc's raised eyebrows. "We've got this new set of experiments that, um, requires a lot of..." He jumped when Doc's pinkie brushed against his own; it took all of Marty's willpower not to grab Doc's hand. "Trial and error."

"Whatever," Tiff muttered, adjusting her helmet-strap. "Three o'clock. I'll hold you to it."

As they watched her race off, Marty let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Come inside," murmured Doc, concerned, his fingers curling just enough to snag Marty's.

It wasn't even noontime, but that hardly mattered. They didn't make it any further than the twin bed, desperate with twenty-four hours' separation. They'd been together for scarcely forty-eight, and it thrilled Marty to think that Doc already missed waking up to him. They took it slow this time, drawing out the tease, article of clothing by shed article of clothing, as long as they could.

Marty choked Doc's name into the pillowcase, his _actual name_ , while Doc proved for the second time in as many days that his clever mouth had applications beyond frantic brainstorming. The up-side to coming fast and hard, he supposed, was being able to lavish attention on Doc.

"My sleep," said Doc, languidly, when he could speak again, "was poorer for your absence."

"Then let's just nap?" Marty yawned, curling into him. "Didn't get much without you, either."

Marty woke after a little while, half-drowsing, to realize that Doc had left the bed—but not without swaddling Marty in more covers than he really needed. There was a lot of banging around and muttering from the back of the garage, the muted racket punctuated every now and again by the odd whimper from Einstein. Marty yawned and fished on the floor for something, _anything_ to preserve a shred of decency in front of the dog; the best he could do was underwear and his jacket.

Doc, re-dressed in his undershirt and boxers, blinked at Marty when he wandered into the living area. He'd been about to say something, but Marty taking a seat on the edge of Doc's bed, which was in the same state they'd left it the day before, gave him pause. He was holding a shoebox.

"C'mon, Doc," Marty said, slipping off his jacket, patting the mattress. "What's this all about?"

Doc sighed, waving off Einstein; when he whistled, the dog retreated obediently to his own bed.

"There was something I'd wanted to show you, what with your interest in my old family photographs," he admitted, taking a seat beside Marty, mindful of the jacket, "but I can't seem to find it." He shook the shoebox in his lap, letting Marty peer inside, trailing his long fingers idly through the largely metallic clutter. "Silver dollars, tie tacks, safety pins, pocket change."

Marty reached inside, too, picking through several of the perilously-clustered pins before snagging what he assumed was one of the tie tacks.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll turn up," he said, idly turning over the item between thumb and forefinger. It was brassy, but not tarnished like most of the rest of the items in the box, and shaped like an upside-down triangular shield. The central field of the pin boasted worn, pale-blue enamel that set off the number _38_ in...well, come to think of it, as bright as the metal was, it _had_ to be gold. Silver accents, crenellated, adorned the top and side planes, along with the initials _SBS_ inlaid with more gold. "But what's this?"

Doc squinted at the pin, carefully plucking it out of Marty's grasp. After a few seconds, his expression went slack with wonder. "My old high school graduation pin. I thought I'd lost it."

"Tell me that's not what you were looking for in the first place," Marty teased, elbowing Doc's ribs.

"It's not," Doc insisted, taking a moment to set down the shoebox and polish the pin on his shirt. "I remembered I'd taken some photographs of an earlier experiment I thought you might like to see."

"Sanderson Boys' School," Marty said, studying the pin as Doc laid it in his palm. "That prep academy?"

"It's been closed since the mid-sixties, but yes," Doc agreed readily. "I attended seventh through twelfth grades there."

"There's some kind of hallmark," Marty said, flipping the pin over. "Is this sucker _gold_?"

"Ten or fourteen karat, maybe nine if they were using a supplier in Europe," said Doc, shrugging, about to pluck the pin back up, but his fingers froze in midair. "I never liked...the idea of a ring."

Marty glanced up at him, grinning. "Well, you wouldn't. Too much risk of a lab mishap, right?"

Doc held Marty's gaze with tense, fragile reluctance as he folded Marty's fingers closed around it.

"It's of no use to me now," he said quietly. "It weighs a few grams; you might be able to pawn it."

Marty couldn't think over his racing pulse, over how sad and sweet and _hopeful_ the gesture.

"Are you kidding me, Doc?" he asked, reaching for his jacket, tugging it across both their laps. He undid the pin's clasp with unsteady fingers, almost jabbing the pad of his thumb. It took him three tries to place the pin in satisfyingly in relation to the three his jacket already bore. " _There_."

Doc stared, disbelieving. He looked so young, so _lost_ , that Marty couldn't help but hug him.

"They teased me because I never gave it away to any sweethearts," he said. "The others, I mean."

"Well, hey," Marty said, grinning helplessly against the side of Doc's neck. "They won't anymore."


End file.
